Journey
by flightofanangel
Summary: Two souls fly together in a journey to fulfillment, a journey where they might not have to do the travelling they believe they must to find the fulfillment they are so set on finding.
1. Home

**I was so pumped to finally start writing again until I had written like half of this and then it got deleted :)))). But hopefully this will suffice, please review! (Not entirely sure where this will be going, but I have a few big ideas to incorporate!)**

* * *

Fingers traced the intricate carvings along the wall that lined one of the many twisted corridors in the Paris Opera House. Corridors that would intimidate any young, solitary girl as Christine Daaé was; had it not been that she had walked these familiar turns numerous times to understand the loneliness that had followed her four years ago.

Many a time had she taken this exact path, a girl that was just in training to be a dancer in the corps de ballet; no guarantee of a position in the corps, but a better chance than a girl with training elsewhere. The walks continued even when her name appeared that one fateful day on the list of new corps members, even when her angel turned into a man. Her loneliness had only partially been quenched by his presence, and she never had the heart to confess to him the true meaning of these walks.

It was where the question that she pondered most was hopefully and frequently answered; her father's approval for the many choices she was coming across in her path of life. What would he say of the time Meg had convinced her to sip (well, drink) the champagne gifted to her friend by a gentleman caller late into the night at Meg's house, laughter echoing into the later, unknown hours of the night? What would he say of her angel, the man so cleverly disguised to gain her trust that she had almost broken with the lie? What would he say of her current situation, utterly yet thankfully trapped comfortably in her position at the Opera House, not as a singer but as a dancer, a ballet rat?

Oh, Christine knew she loved to dance. Often she had danced to her father's violin, once, with a friend when her father taught her how to properly dance as if she was at a ball. But constantly she felt stuck in this position at the Opera House. She would never be a good enough (or, she hated to admit it, dedicated enough) dancer to take the place of Prima Ballerina during the rare occasion the opera put on a ballet. Besides, Meg had been eyeing that position for a while now and she wouldn't dare bring herself to take it from her.

Christine hummed a familiar Swedish folk song that she and her friend had danced to what seemed like a different world ago, their steps in time to the music. Place your hand on her back, there, that's it. Clasp her hand gently, now feel the music. And she had been unable to contain her giggles, stepping on her friend's feet several times, laughter growing with each mistake. The lesson had ended with a soft promise, soft enough that her father couldn't hear. _I will take you dancing, my Little Lotte, I promise I will._

She sighed and continued on her walk, making note of yet another impossible promise that would eventually fade into her memory with the others. Really it was her own fault, believing these fairy tales full of complete and utter nonsense that were written for the soul purpose of mocking hopefuls young girls as her. She would remain thankful for what she had, most especially these walks that she could keep for herself, a time a peace amidst the blur of life she was caught in.

It was a tradition, she supposed, that she was determined to continue for as long as she remained here. And the way things looked for her, she would be here forever.

Soft murmurs followed her through the hall, the walls not quite thin enough to decipher any of the words. In a way it was comforting, the gentle hum of those who practically lived the same life as hers, a sense of companionship among them even with those she had never spoken with. As they usually did, corners and polished wood soon turned into frequent dead ends and dusty hallways, only the occasional footstep imprinted in the dust and debris that had collected on the floor.

Once Christine had gotten lost going this way. It had been the farthest she had traveled within the twists of the Opera House, but something in her had told her to keeping pushing forth. She supposed it had been a particularly difficult day of rehearsal; it was soon after her acceptance into the corps, and Erik, still her angel at the time, had stormed down on her the entire lesson. But when she had gotten lost, her chest heaving to try to catch breaths that came no where near her, her nails digging into her palms as she clenched her fists, the world around her swimming in and out of view, he had been her savior, guiding her straight back to familiarity.

These thoughts tumbled about Christine's mind as she made her way to her favorite entrance to the Opera House. It was towards the back, but led her into a beautiful garden kept by one of the maids in her spare time. She had never met the creator of such beauty, but was always thankful for its existence. It was escape and it always had been; a gentle finale to her long, thoughtful walks that were such a regular occurrence for her.

Now, as she closed her eyes and took in the familiar smell of dirt and flowers entwined in the air, she wanted to never leave. But it would soon be supper time, and Christine had promised Mama Valerius that for once she would be able to make it on time to share a meal. When Carlotta had been cast as the lead again a few weeks ago, lessons had continued; yet even more brutal lengthy than ever. Christine had found herself dining more often with her tutor than her guardian, and she tried not to think of the impropriety of it all. Many a time over a small and silent meal had she suddenly lost her appetite, realizing her wrongdoing in the midst of her meal.

She practically skipped home at the thought of sitting down to a pleasant meal with someone other than the darkness that was her teacher. Despite all he had given her, she guiltily knew that he could never take the place of the comfort Mama held. Rain clouds rumbled gently in the distance, and a light trickle of rain appeared almost as soon as she reached her home.

* * *

"Who is the man?" Mama Valerius silently studied her adopted daughter during supper. She had watched and admired with motherly pride from afar Christine's growth in not only beauty and strength but in her talents of music and dance as well.

Something fluttered in Christine's stomach as she took in the question, her brows curving into a frown. "Mama?"

"Oh, my dear. This is the first time you've been here for a meal with me in days. It cannot be just rehearsal, it cannot be just outings with your friends. You return so late into the night, you barely live here anymore. I worry, Christine. Please just tell me." Mama's wrinkled yet soft hand reached out to touch Christine's youthful one, trying yet failing to meet her gaze as well.

Christine smiled when she realized what Mama was talking about, gently squeezing her hand and relieving it of its tension. "Oh, Mama. There is no man. Well, there is a man, but he is not what you think. It is my teacher I told you about, that is all. I promise, he only teaches me to sing."

If Mama didn't believe her, she didn't expose it. She trusted her Christine, and there was no reason for worry. "Alright, my dear. Invite me to your first performance as Prima Donna," she chuckled, wishing it were true. There were many times when Mama felt that Christine was working hard for nothing. Christine was beautiful and talented, but was no match for the publicity required to hold the title of Prima Donna. Prima Donnas came from wealthy families, families who had influence, and her Christine had neither.

Christine let out a laugh, a perfect sound that was melodious, beautiful, golden, and heartbreaking all at the same time. "I will, and I will buy you the most beautiful gown to attend! You will make even the Countess jealous, the Empress of Japan will bow at your feet!" She stood to clear the table, the soft clatter of porcelain following her to the counter. She knew the uncertainty in Mama's tone was valid, the teasing improbability that she will ever become Prima Donna. As much as her maestro may want it, the odds were simply not in her favor.

"But no, my Christine. I will get to see your face shine up at me from every newspaper in Paris! I will have to bar the doors to keep reporters and callers out of our house!" Mama followed her into the kitchen, towel in hand as Christine began washing their dishes. Christine smiled, biting her lip as a habit of hers since childhood. She could never be one of those girls, the ones followed by reporters whose first priorities were the wealthy and beautiful women of Paris.

The two clamored and giggled on as little girls would, building a fantasy world for the two of them that both knew would never happen, yet both hoped for. "Christine, please sing." Mama's words came abruptly, yet not unexpected. It had been a few times more that she had begged for her adopted daughter to grant her a song, a result of all those times Christine never came home for dinner, didn't arrive home until she was in bed for hours, tossing and turning for fear that Christine had run into one of the many dangers of the silent night. So many times Christine had shyly shaken her head with a small rejection of the idea, claiming she was not ready, she was too tired to accomplish such a feat, she had already been singing all day, Mama. Maybe one day she might hear her.

But this time seemed different. Even with one day away from her lessons, she missed the feel of the music flowing through her veins as blood would, giving her skin a bright happiness that only the music could achieve. The music knew it could achieve this too, and used this slyly to tug at her heart, play with her emotions, confusing her mind until it allowed her to soar again. "I... suppose. But just a little, our neighbors will complain," she cracked a smile, her heart fluttering at the thought of singing again.

She dried her hands on the towel, closing her eyes as she recalled that folk song, the one she had been humming earlier. And suddenly she was in that same room, the fire crackling just as it had been in Mama Valerius' flat, except her father's violin would warm her far more than any fire ever would. She was sitting next to her dance partner, both out of breath from their shared laughter. Her voice soared just as the violin did that night so long ago, carrying the music with her soul and losing track of Mama and the room she truly stood in.

The song was short, and the memory short lived as Christine soared back down to earth, Mama finally arriving back into view and the continuous patter of rain drumming on their roof. Mama was silent when she returned, her gaze attracted to something invisible on the floor. At that moment she yearned for nothing more than to be able to give her Christine all she could ever want, to give her the career her voice was destined for and to hear her soar as she just did in front of the world, to share what music truly was. To make people understand.

"That was beautiful, my dear," she simply said, other words at the tip of her tongue but daring not to leap into the air. But Christine didn't need to hear them; she felt the glowing pride emitting from Mama, her eyes shining with a delight she had never seen before. Now it was her turn to stare at the invisible something on the floor, her eyes locked with it for what seemed like forever.

"Thank you." She spoke softly, returning immediately to tidying up after their supper, scrubbing until it gleamed.

The rest of the night was silent save for the occasional word or two, would you like tea, do you have rehearsal tomorrow. And then as Mama Valerius sat and knitted, and Christine Daae sat and read her book in front of the crackling fire, a steady rain now pattering on their second floor roof, Christine knew that it was in her power to try with all her will and self to make that wish come true. Wishes came true every day, just as the fairy tales her papa used to read to her told of. Why should her life be any different? She would do it, and her father, she knew, would be proud.


	2. Lesson

With dreams of grandeur came a reminder of reality; in Christine's case a few errands to run as Mama Valerius' request. Although rehearsal didn't start until later, she had promised she'd be there earlier for a longer lesson in exchange for the day off yesterday. Mama was still asleep by the time Christine had dressed and was out the door, a soft tread leaving no evidence of her early rising.

Her assigned duty for this dreary day was to deliver a letter for Mama. Sometime during the night the patter of late fall rain had turned into the eerily soundless falling of snow, rooftops now piled with the soft whiteness. Wisps of smoke escaped from chimneys in the shops and homes on either side of her on her way to the post office, the snow in the streets a stark contrast to the white of the snow above. It looked as if carriages had already been out and about, dirtying the snow on the ground so it became a garish light brown tone.

Christine adjusted the red wool scarf that she had wrapped carefully around herself. It wouldn't do to arrive to her lesson with a chilled throat, and Erik would be highly disappointed in her had she just worn a cloak to keep the chill out. The scarf clashed terribly with the burgundy dress she wore beneath her cloak, but it was the only scarf she owned and needed. As far as important scarves went, this one had its reasons for being near and dear to her.

To her surprise, there was a short line at the post office, other early risers with the same errands in mind. As she waited, Christine turned the crisp envelope over in her gloved hands. Mama always had her deliver these letters, to the same address in New York City. The letters from New York arrived regularly, just as regularly as Mama sent hers. Christine had never bothered to ask who they were for, as there was never any name indicated who the person across the world could be. Although she often thought of Mama as a mother, she knew she had no blood relation to the woman and therefore refrained from interfering in her very personal affairs, the ones that she didn't speak to Christine of. If she didn't want to tell Christine about it, then Christine believed she had no business asking about it. She was already very grateful for what Mama had done for her and her family.

It was finally her turn and she placed her coin and letter on the counter, conversing with the clerk politely before resuming her brisk pace in the already brisk weather she still had to face for another few blocks. She had never felt the need to take any other form of transportation to the opera house other than her two own feet from her flat, but days like this made it especially difficult to welcome the idea of tricky steps and footwork in pointe shoes for hours on end later that day.

She finally reached the looming, beautiful building that was also known as home to her, fumbling with freezing fingers despite the gloves atop them with the handle of the stage door, the door shutting with a soft thump behind her. In all honesty, the inside of the opera house didn't have as much as a temperature change from the coldness outside that she had hoped for, and she pulled her cloak tightly around her.

Damp footsteps trailed behind her, the soft click of the heel of her boots sounding throughout the empty hall. She shivered again, snowy light through the windows the only thing leading her through the hall. "We must first get you warm before we begin any lesson." He was there, as always, a sudden appearance in the shadows, a soothing tone so as not to frighten her.

"No... I'm alright. The music will warm me." One gloved hand met another and soon he was leading her down, further and further. If possible, it got colder as they descended into the world of her teacher, a world that she was hardly familiar with yet felt at home with as soon as the music touched her.

If Christine had not been wearing gloves, she would have felt how the coldness of his hands matched the chill around them just so. If Erik had not been wearing gloves, he would've felt the warmth emanating from Christine's hands despite her chilled walk from her home. But both of their hands were shielded from the other with knit fabric and leather, the gentle but guiding grip parting as they reached their destination.

Erik had obviously not heard or chose to ignore Christine's previous words, draping her cloak over a chair to dry and renewing the fire. For the first time, it was warmer in his home than in the opera house's hallways, and that struck Christine as particularly odd. "Tea?" he questioned, gesturing for her to sit in a comfortable looking chair placed by the fire. It was quite the domestic thing for him to say, and Christine soon found herself on edge at his intriguing behavior.

She nodded, beginning to wonder if the true purpose of the earlier lesson was to have a chat over tea, but she brushed away the idea. He was simply warming her up again, and heaven knew that she needed it. "Thank you." She was already beginning to warm from her spot near the fire she grew fonder and fonder of by the minute. The toes of her boots glistened with melted snow, her curls now weighed down and dampened as well.

He disappeared for a few minutes, preparing her tea for her and returned with a lightly fruited tea, the smell of some exotic fruit wafting into the air. Christine took it gratefully and sipped carefully, staring into the fire and attempting to ignore his tall figure lingering awkwardly in the threshold that led into the room.

Already on edge from his peculiar actions, while in attempt to set the cup of tea on the small table next to her, the hot liquid splashed onto the back of her hand. A loud gasp in an attempt to hide the pain broke the silence that previously prevailed. In seconds she didn't knew existed, he was by her side, carefully examining the reddening section of skin before disappearing and reappearing with a spicy smelling salve.

It soothed her burn as soon as he applied it, his touch gentle and almost timid. "Thank you," she murmured again, chewing on her bottom lip as he left to return the mysterious salve back to its place. "And thank you for the fire, too. It was quite the cold walk this morning." She smiled, attempting to lighten the air between them.

Instead, a frown creased from what Christine could see behind the mask. "If I knew the weather would have been like this, I never would have requested you to arrive this early. My apologies."

"Oh, no it's alright. I know I asked a lot for cancelling the lesson from two days ago, it's perfectly alright." She swore on her life that her tone was the farthest from sardonic; she knew she was asking a lot, as he expected a lot from her. She promised it wasn't meant to be mocking, she promised.

But he did not see it as so and his glowing eyes narrowed in suspicion, his body tensing and his voice cold when he spoke. "I shall keep that in mind. I know it's asking a lot, but we shall begin today's lesson promptly." His words were a mirror image reflection, cold and broken.

The red on Christine's hand from her burn soon matched her cheeks as she realized her mistake. Her tutor was like a fickle rainstorm in a season that was not meant for rain. The right condition had to be present for him to behave as any other man would, a calm individual that expressed his thoughts clearly and mindfully.

Now, as he forcefully led her with silence into her favorite room of all. It was very much taken care of above all the other rooms in his odd living space, a true example of where his cares in life lay.

As usual but with an underlying hint of anger, lessons began as usual. This was where everything around them disappeared. It became just them and the music, and nothing else mattered. Any anger or embarrassment from before was swept away with each and every note. If anyone else had ever gotten to witness this sacred moments that occurred almost every day, they would feel completely and utterly lost. They wouldn't understand.

But Christine and Erik did understand, and they understood each other when music was involved. The anger was gone from Erik's eyes and tone the minute Christine began warming her voice, the minute his fingers touched the piano keys. And he was a tutor, a guide again. Nothing else but that mattered.

Arpeggios climbed and crescendos soared, producing a sound where voice and piano blended beautifully.

Christine hadn't even realized how much time had passed until she began to feel tired, every muscle in her body working together to produce a glorious sound for a few hours, now. Which also meant she was late for rehearsal. This was why, when there was a pause, Christine timidly let her voice fall, knowing it was the only way she would get Erik's attention on the matter. "Maestro... I'm terribly late to rehearsal."

He stopped, and she expected him to be as mad as he was before. "Rehearsals for what?" But of course he knew, he always knew what Christine was doing, where she was. If she was safe.

"Rehearsal for the ballet. We show in one week."

"There is no singing?" he asked thoughtfully, surprisingly cool in spite of the previous heated tone.

"No, no singing." Christine watched him curiously as he luxuriously turned the pages of the score they were working on as if he had no care in the world. He drummed his long, finally ungloved fingers against the deep mahogany wood of the instrument, eyes sweeping across the pages that lay before him.

"It is not necessary. Do not go," he finally spoke, baffling Christine even further. Regardless of whether her rehearsals had been for ballets or operas, he had always respected her need to be on time to each rehearsal. She would surely be cut from the show if she were not to go today.

His confidence and commanding presence silenced any protest that had been on the tip of her tongue. The lesson continued for as long as he felt need that day. They stopped at the moment where Christine's voice was on the verge of getting tired, but never so.

She bit her lip as she watched him fold up the music. It was too late to go to rehearsal, she couldn't bare the shame of walking in so late under the judging glares of her fellow dancers. No, she didn't quite know what to do now. Christine knew her career was now in jeopardy, and she couldn't help but wonder how she was to ever be promoted if she missed essential rehearsals as this.

Christine was prepared to now venture out back into the rain, almost-dry cloak in hand along with her precious scarf. But Erik's watchful eyes remained on her until his golden voice graced her ears once more. "Stay here until the snow lets up."

"Oh... I couldn't, besides, it has probably stopped." They both knew that it hadn't, but Christine couldn't risk another frightening outburst from her tutor. And he saw it, saw the fear in her eyes when he began to speak, her careful movements, as if one jerk of the hand would send him flying with rage. And who was he to deny the possibilities of it happening?

"Alright. If you wish. But I will take you," he held out a hand, now gloved again. Christine, having donned her cloak, scarf, and gloves already took it, wondering how an escort home this afternoon could possibly change her cold walk back.

As she soon found out, it did make a difference as he intended on calling a carriage for her. He did not join her, instead speaking in a hushed tone to the driver. Christine found what he was saying to be completely inaudible and felt herself growing more and more curious the longer he stayed. She finally saw him hand off a handful of coins to the driver, and at this she stepped forward. "Erik, no, thank you, but I can pay..."

He interrupted her. "Do not worry. It's no trouble."

She knew there was no use in arguing against the determination in his tone and silenced. What she did not know was if the driver knew where she was going. Without a word of goodbye or even acknowledgement, Erik helped her into the carriage before it lurched into motion.

It was quite the elegant carriage and Christine found herself closed off from any communication with the driver. She wrapped herself snuggly in her cloak to rest for the first time today.

Somehow, the driver did indeed know where her flat was. The only way he could know was if Erik knew, and Christine could swear that she had never disclosed the location of her living establishment. It sent an uneasy chill down her back, but she attempted to brush it off. There was probably at least one time she had spoken of at least her neighborhood. Still, whatever she told herself didn't rid of the discomfort she felt as horse hooves clapped against the pavement.

Soon, they reached her home. She secretly hoped that Mama wouldn't be there to bombard her with questions she didn't blame her for asking. Why splurge on a carriage? You never take a carriage from the opera house. Why are you home so early when you promised a late rehearsal?

But of course, Mama was there. She actually emerged from the flat as Christine stepped out, shawl pulled tightly around her. An eyebrow was raised, and Christine was already sure of the scenario that would play out before her.


End file.
